A Maine Summer Day

It was the kind of day if you were fishing or hunting or haying
You thanked the Good Lord for, not quite, but kinda like praying.
In the distant sky to the South an eagle flew, soaring high
Against the sun
And in the bay a school of tinker mackerel surfaced for
A frantic run.

At our camp the tide was almost high and so were the two
Who pulled their skiff towards our shore,
Awash in salt water and empty bottles
Of what had been Feigenspan beer, and a tubful
Of mackerel or more.

The bigger of the two men, wearing heavy overalls and
Tall rubber boots stood up to drain the dregs of
A bottle of gin.

He staggered as the little boat rolled on the tide,
Still coming in,
And before he could regain his frantic balance
He yelled, took a drunken step or two as if in a
Crazy dance
And fell full length over the side, hitting his head
On an empty oarlock
Then sank out of sight like a huge, heavy, insensate rock.